I'm With You
by SableUnstable
Summary: He hadn't been expecting her. He hadn't been expecting anyone, and the consequences are difficult for both to face. Nothing is ever logical when you're lost, after all. Sirimione, rated M for language and adult content. Written for Worthfull1
1. Chapter 1

**I'm With You**

 **Disclaimer:** J.K Rowling owns Harry Potter. I do not.

 **A/N –** Happy anniversary, **Worthfull1**. This first chapter is very short but I aim for the following ones to be longer. I hope you enjoy! :D Shared credit for the concept and her amazing alpha-ing skills belong to the truly wonderful **Siriusly Orion Wicked.** Thank you, my darling!

* * *

 **Chapter One**

* * *

Cold. Grey. Endless.

The barren plains stretch out in front of Sirius, rolling across the horizon in never-ending dips and loops, hidden peaks he's never found, and constant, constant flats. It just keeps going. He stares out at it, his hands in the pockets of dark muggle jeans, a biting wind plucking at his midnight blue shirt. With sleeves rolled up and his hair flicking into his face, he probes the distant fields, looking, _searching_ , for something he already knows isn't there. It's never been there. Never will be.

Still, he searches.

It's a habit he can't for the life of him break, and it's one he's not sure he _wants_ to break. If he breaks the habit, then isn't he essentially giving up hope? He doesn't know where he is. Somewhere… not his. But wherever not his is, he's stuck here, lost within a place that he's terrible afraid is entirely too real, and if he stops looking for the end, for the way out, won't he have found a different, more permanent end? It frightens him, that thought.

Another, ever-growing thought, that perhaps he'll be happier if he _did_ break the habit and accept what's not his, frightens him even more.

He has no real memory of before this. He remembers people and places and a whole, complete life, but it's like it happened to someone else. Someone else who's still somehow him. He knows that it was real, and since it was, logically _this_ can't be, but it's like there was a different him. A different Sirius. The memories he has have no connection to him, despite them being his. It's disturbing and distressing to remember a person's life who's him but not, so he tries not to think about it too much. Instead, he devotes all his time to finding a way _out_. Because even though he can't comprehend when this colourless world began, he knows, instinctively, that he wants it to end.

He _needs_ it to end.

He's desperate to have the Sirius that he doesn't think about _back._

Lightning cracks across the sky, thunder a predictable, ominous echo, and Sirius starts and looks up. Jet black brows draw down as he probes something that's been a little different from the everyday search lately. The thing about his world that isn't the world he was born into and grew up in, is that it doesn't change. At all. He has no clue how long he's been wherever he is, but in however long it's been, nothing has ever changed. Just the grey plains that he's walked and walked and walked.

The lightning is new. And he's not sure whether 'new' is a good thing or not.

Another bright bolt snakes its way through the grey the matches the earth, almost splitting the sky in half, lending light to dreary existence. The tips of his fingers beginning to tingle, Sirius's frown deepens. A second lightning strike straight after the first is something else that's never happened before. A shiver runs through him, the feeling of someone walking over his grave heavy down his spine as tension tightens in his belly. His heart begins to rocket against his ribcage.

Something is happening. The lightning is new but more of it is newer, and he can taste sudden change on his tongue. Catastrophic change.

What's going on here?

His legs are moving without forethought, panic a bite that's disturbingly sharp. He runs and the plains continue like always, the abruptly strengthening wind lashing at him, thunder booming. Giving chase. He can't see through the hair in his eyes and his breath bitterly cold in his lungs, but he runs because he doesn't know what this is and the taut anticipation in his blood says that the change is very wrong.

He's wanted change. He's screamed out for change. Now he has it and he urgently wants to _give it back!_

A sob cuts into a shocked cry when the terrain he knows so well veers into pointed peaks, tripping him up and tumbling him to the ground. His chest is heaving with stolen breaths, rocks stinging his palms, dust dirtying his knees. His world is literally rolling now, the ground bucking, the lightning turning the ozone white and hot and hell on earth. Thunder roars, and Sirius roars with it, fingers clawing in the dirt.

He screams and he screams until his voice peters out, this foreign world he's come to know and hate shrieking like a turbulent, maniacal banshee. And then, as if tied to his voice fleeing to the hills that hadn't been there seconds before, it all stops.

Just stops.

He's panting with fear. The plains are flat, the sky is calm, the earth is still. Sirius stares at the ordinary ground beneath his clutching hands with wide eyes. Eventually he manages to get to his feet, forcing himself up to see what needs to be fought now.

Cold. Grey. Endless.

Except it isn't.

Adrenaline flooding his system, he sways on the spot, eyes on the once again on the distant horizon that never stops being distant.

There's something there that has never been there before.

Something that's getting closer.

Sirius blinks in shock. The something isn't a _thing_. It's… a figure?

He sways and the figure approaches, suddenly right there. In front of him. Five steps away, with extravagant hair that falls over her shoulders and bewildered brown eyes that are currently gawking at him in disbelief.

"Sirius?" Hermione Granger whispers, the shock in her tone jabbing at his skin like icy pinpricks. Sirius swallows hard and shoves a hand through tangled black waves, the laughter that escapes his tightly compressed chest high-pitched and more than a little desperate.

"Hello, pet."


	2. Chapter 2

**I'm With You**

 **Disclaimer:** Noooooooot minnnnnnnnnne!

 **Mega Alpha love and appreciation:** Siriusly Orion Wicked

 **A/N –** Hello, lovelies! Next chapter! Don't forget to leave me some thoughts at the end, yes? :)

For you, Worthfull. Love you to the moon and back, and then twice over again.

 _"Sirius?" Hermione Granger whispers, the shock in her tone jabbing at his skin like icy pinpricks. Sirius swallows hard and shoves a hand through tangled black waves, the laughter that escapes his tightly compressed chest high-pitched and more than a little desperate._

 _"Hello, pet."_

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

* * *

"Am I dreaming?"

Her voice sounds real. Yanking his hands through his hair once more, Sirius gives in to the shock of the last few minutes and sits where he is, his legs folding under him until he's looking up at the witch who shouldn't be _here_ , of all places. Wherever here is. Hermione's eyes follow his drop and then she's standing over him, expression a humorous mix of disbelief, confusion, and trepidation. Wearing a blush-coloured cardigan over a crisp white oxford shirt, her jeans are a lot trendier than he'd ever thought she'd wear, and Sirius's gaze runs over her face, his own sort of confusion setting in.

She looks… older. The Hermione Granger above him isn't the same teenage girl the real Sirius last saw. He presses the heels of his hands hard into his eyes and then looks again, a scowl soon marring his features.

"Who are you?" he demands – or rather croaks. There's dust in his throat, coating his tongue. Making him feel old. He swallows repeatedly and tries to discreetly cough, keeping his eyes fixed on the not-Hermione looking down at him.

He seems to have lost the ability to make his legs work.

"Who are _you_?" the woman retorts. Her hands find her hips and her mouth presses into a line that brings back unsound memory after unsound memory. He wishes he could trust what was in his head. But if he can't trust himself to know he is who he is, how can he trust what his subconscious is telling him?

"Sirius Black," he says in a way that would've convinced him. Then, because he truly doesn't have the energy to rise – and isn't that a kicker? He's never felt physically _tired_ before – he reaches up and grasps her elbows, tugging down sharply. The Hermione-wannabe lets out a startled yelp and collapses in front of him.

His hands stay on her elbows. Her teeth are white when she struggles against his hold and bares them at him furiously.

" _Excuse_ me? Exactly who do you think you are?!"

"Sirius Black." His head cocks and he eyes her. "You look an awful lot like Hermione Granger. But Granger's a child. You're not."

"Well, you look an awful lot like someone who's dead," she snaps back.

Sirius lets go of her elbows as if burned.

"I'm not dead."

The woman rubs along the length of her arms, looking mightly peeved. "Really? Tell that to the very much dead Sirius Black who acted recklessly and tumbled through the Death Veil as a result! 'Death Veil' sure sounds like it produces death to me!"

Her biting sarcasm does nothing to alleviate the sudden, sucking hole in his centre, but it does lead him closer to believing she is who she looks like. Hermione Granger has always had a sharp tongue in her head, something he'd witnessed Harry and Ron get lashed by many times in the past. She'd never had the bollocks to lecture him, of course, but he'd only ever admit to himself that he'd always looked forward to the day she'd show some and try to put him in his place. Sirius loves a good argument and Granger could argue with the best of them. The little miss didn't like being wrong.

He'd never thought it'd be… he can't think of it.

"Is Harry alive?" he mutters to his knees, knuckles kneading his chest, rolling back and forth, back and forth, over his heart. It hurts. Sirius can't be dead, can he? He's never wanted to believe it whenever the thought has burrowed its way through his brain. This isn't afterlife. He's always liked the concept of heaven, not only because it's a muggle belief and muggles made his family see red, but also because the idea of it soothed him in general. But this certainly isn't heaven, and he's wished repeatedly, practically _begged_ every deity he ever heard of, for it not to be hell either.

Sirius wasn't dead. _He_ wasn't dead.

Was he?

He makes himself look up when the silence runs on too long, peering through his hair to see the woman he's now 90% convinced _is_ Hermione Granger, watching him with too shrewd eyes. Her expression speaks volumes, and he forces his spine straight in the wake of the pity he sees. Fuck that. He doesn't need her sympathy, or anyone's. His chin lifts, an impertinent eyebrow arching in question.

Hermione blinks.

"Yes, of course he is," she says, voice impatient. "Never mind all that, you need to tell me where we are and how the hell we got here."

She gets to her feet and reaches for him, and before he realises he's going to be, he's off the ground and standing. Pride giving him an odd sort of strength, Sirius breathes in slowly and eyes his unexpected companion – the solidness of her, the ever predictability of the little Granger girl needing to know things _right now!_ She's surveying their surroundings like an exit will pop up any moment if she wills it hard enough, and when she swings back around and pins him with the demand her eyes are practically shouting, he grins.

It's a strange feeling, smiling.

"Don't ask me, pet. You're the one who just appeared out of thin air, you're more likely to have knowledge of this place than I am. How did _you_ get here?"

Hermione scowls. "I thought I fell asleep," she says, sounding frustrated. "Are you sure this isn't a dream?"

The amusement fades as rapidly as it arrived. Sirius shakes his head and shoves his hands in his pockets, mouth twisted. "Granger, if this was a dream, don't you think I would've forced myself awake ages ago?"

She sighs, a gust of a sound, and pushes her hair back out of her face. "Right, then. I am… withholding judgement over whether this is real or not until I have more information. How far does the terrain go? Have you looked?"

Sirius snorts with laughter at that question. His entire body begins to shake with it at her narrow-eyed glare, and it rolls across the landscape, accompanying them both when Hermione grits her teeth and turns to stomp away from him, leaving him to catch up. He's trails after her for an unseemly amount of time that doesn't matter anyway, because time doesn't have any meaning in this place, and he's still grinning when she finally gives up. He's counted their steps as they'd trudged never-endingly, a constant slog of putting one foot in front of the other, chuckling to himself as the number grows.

1622\. That's a lot of steps. His stomach hurts from laughter and Hermione is looking extremely deflated. She stops in place and turns to him, shoulders sagging.

"There isn't a way out of here, is there?" she asks quietly. Sirius shakes his head, holding back the twitching of his lips. He shouldn't be laughing, should he? He doesn't even know exactly why he is.

The horrible sense of loss under the laughter is something he doesn't want to acknowledge.

"No, pet. It just keeps going on and on. The only thing that ever changed was the earthquake that happened right before you got here."

Hermione frowns. "Earthquake? I never felt any earth-"

The air _twangs_ , pulling out of shape and snapping back into place, cutting Hermione off mid-sentence. Her eyes go very wide and she takes a step forward, reaching for him, before suddenly just… not being there.

Vanished. Blinked from existence. As if she was never there in the first place.

She's gone with nothing more than a stirring of the dust beneath their shoes. Sirius stares at the empty spot in front of him blankly, then turns with heavy limbs and begins to walk.

He's still wandering aimlessly, mind hidden within the fruitless concept of broken time, when she appears next.


	3. Chapter 3

**I'm With You**

 **Disclaimer:** I do not, in any way, shape, or form, own.

 **Mega alpha appreciation and love:** Siriusly Orion Wicked

 **A/N –** For the woman who is worth it all and more to me: Worthfull1

 _He's still wandering aimlessly, mind hidden within the fruitless concept of broken time, when she appears next._

* * *

 **Chapter Three**

* * *

"I really do think I'm dreaming."

The voice shouldn't shock him as much as it does. Sirius's body jerks as her words filter across the barren plains, drifting on a wind that doesn't exist and whispering in his ear as if she's standing right next to him. She's speaking as if she's talking to herself rather than him, but he reacts as if she's addressed him directly, swivelling on the spot and heading towards the figure who's made small by distance. A thought flutters through his head that she's actually small anyway – always has been, hasn't she – and her smile flickers between welcome and confusion when he stops in front of her, eyes locked on her face.

"I went to bed before this. I know I did. I'm not wearing my night clothes, and this doesn't _really_ have the qualities of a dream, but how exactly do you classify those… oh. Sirius?"

Her eyes are wide. The skin of her cheek is soft. His breath rushes from a chest that has gone ridiculously tight with fear, relief washing over him like a cool wave of fresh, clean water. His mind somewhat looser, his thumb travels across her cheek for a half miniscule of a moment, and then he lets her go.

"Sorry. Had to know you were real."

His voice is rough and crackly and that pity is back in Hermione's expression. And it does exactly the same thing it did last time: puts his back up in a way that makes him feel human and whole and relatively _normal_ , and who is this girl to make him feel like he's sixteen again and Lily's just figured out what happened over the summer? The coolly amused arch of the eyebrow that Sirius learnt at a very early age is an extremely effective tool, and when Hermione's face flushes a little, her gaze dropping, Sirius feels like _Sirius._

The real Sirius. The one in his head who isn't him, but moments like this make it feel like he is.

And that it's possible to be.

"You're in a dream?" he asks, sitting in the dust and waiting for Hermione to sit with him. They could walk, yes, but it would be pointless, and he doesn't know how long he's been on his feet. He wishes time had some sort of meaning to him. How long has it been since she was last here?

How long has _he_ been here? He doesn't even want to consider the answer to that.

"That's the logical assumption," Hermione says, choosing not to sit. Instead, she paces, her body moving back and forth across a short space in front of him, contemplation twisting her features. He almost wants her to stroke her chin to complete the look.

The half-smile feels just as good as the peaked eyebrow had.

"But this is much too clear to be a dream, really, when you think about it. It's just too… stoic? Solid. I'm not sure. I feel like I'm in control, and I'm certainly not in control of any of my standard dreams. I shouldn't even be able to think the way I am now. But I definitely fell asleep before this, and last time I'm sure I woke up-"

"When was that?" Sirius interrupts, quiet voice cutting through her thinking out loud in a way that startles both of them. Hermione turns to look at him with a frown.

"When was what?"

"When did you wake up? How long ago was that?"

There's no pity this time, just more of her thinking face. He's seen her 'working shit out' face many times in the past, and he's a little embarrassed by the comfort it lends him. Hermione Granger is _smart_. She's Lily-smart.

Too smart for her own good, in some ways.

"A week? Yes, I think a week. I seem to be a bit disorientated for a little while afterwards. It's strange. This whole bloody thing is strange. What are you even doing here, Sirius?"

She asks him in a way that's completely _not_ rhetorical, and the helpless blankness he gives back to her distresses her just as much as him. He can see the frustration rattling through her, making her start pacing again; making her voice pick up speed until he almost can't understand what she's saying. But he doesn't need to understand what she's saying, does he, because she, once again, isn't talking to him.

Remus does that. Talks to himself as a way to sort everything out in his head. It irritated James to no end in school, especially when they were sharing the same study table...

It _used_ to irritate James to no end. Past tense.

Because James Potter is dead.

Did Remus _used_ to talk to himself, too?

The abrupt invasion of panic grips him hard, dulling the all too familiar sharp points of a years old hurt. _Fuck._

"Is Remus alive?"

His question fairly bullets out of him, making his abdomen concave inwards, the words strangled. It's worse than when he'd asked about Harry's fate, because he'd somehow already known that answer. Deep down, he had. They'd been relief when Hermione had answered to the affirmative, sure there had, but the way she'd answered had felt right. Had felt _correct._

 _Yes, of course he is._

No doubt. Like it's a given.

Harry has people. He has luck and a prophecy and Dumbledore desperate to fulfill that prophecy on his side. Remus, he… he doesn't have people. Not that kind of people. With James and Lily dead, with the rat's betrayal, with Sirius, _him_ , wherever he is _,_ Remus is… Remus is alone.

Sweet mother of Merlin.

What year is it?

"Sirius? Sirius, calm down. You need to breathe. Remus is fine. Very much alive and kicking. Sirius, listen to me, he's fine, okay? He's fine! Sirius? _Sirius_!"

There's touch here, fingers gentle and urgent on his forehead, his cheeks, his jaw, and her voice seems to travel a distance that defies the body heat he can feel at his side. His own body trembles and he can't seem to take in any oxygen. His lungs are squeezed so tight, he feels folded in two. His head spins.

Spinning, and spinning, and spinning. Will it never end?

"Sirius, can you count with me? I need you to count with me, down from 100. Can you do that? Come on now, 100, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95…"

Her voice is distant, her counting constant, and his raging mind throws up a memory of Remus in school, the ever trustable Madam Pomfrey – " _m_ _y gloriously fit darling Poppy, my sweet, everlasting heart, we're to be married with wreaths in our hair, wearing nothing but bells on our toes!_ – and the school's mediwitch doing the very same with a very young, very scared Gryffindor boy who had a problem with large crowds. The memory provides a clear corner in his brain that crosses some of the distance, and Sirius finds himself automatically counting along with Hermione as her voice gets louder, concentrating on the numbers instead of the panic and doom screaming through his head.

The progress is slow. They're at 47 before Sirius's lungs finally start to expand.

"All right, then?"

Her voice is soft when they reach zero. He breathes deep and then swallows very hard. "Where did you learn to do that?"

Hermione smiles a little and shrugs. "You learn a lot in the aftermath of war. Remus is fine, Sirius. More than fine, in fact; he's thriving. He misses you, of course, but then you won't find someone who _doesn't_ miss a loved one they lost… oh damn. Fuck's sake. I'm sorry, Sirius, I didn't mean-"

"I'm dead," Sirius states flatly, cutting her off. The acceptance of the fact is sudden and very swift, and nothing compared to the panic from moments before. He almost feels lighter for it. "No need to sugarcoat it, pet. I'm dead, and for you, this is a dream." He hugs his knees and eyes her curiously, a new thought occurring to him. "Why are you dreaming about a ghost, Hermione? Why are you in here, in damnation with me?"

He blinks and the questions slide like oil down his gullet, sitting like lead in his stomach and making him feel sick, so that he has to take another couple of deep breaths to stave off any returning panic. Why _is_ she here? She _can't_ be here! This is the place for broken old men who had done many, _many_ things in their lives that they were ashamed of. This isn't the place for someone like her!

He has to get her out. Soon. Now. And stop her coming back.

What if she keeps coming back and ends up getting just as stuck as he is?

"This isn't hell," Hermione says with a thoughtful frown, but Sirius is no longer listening.


	4. Chapter 4

**I'm With You**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own the Harry Potter franchise and I never will.

 **Mega alpha love and appreciation:** Siriusly Orion Wicked

 **A/N –** You all are pretty damn awesome, you know that? Thank you for the wonderful love you're giving this fic. I'm a bit blown away. Siriusly. Thank you! :D

Always, for Worthfull.

 _"This isn't hell," Hermione says with a thoughtful frown, but Sirius is no longer listening._

* * *

 **Chapter Four**

* * *

It gives him something to focus on, that goal.

Hermione appears, disappears and reappears, constantly, and every time she does, he drowns her in questions. Why is she here? Why does she keep coming back? Why does she keep going away? Had the earthquake something to do with it? What else has she found out? There's nothing he can do from wherever his hell is, but there's _everything_ she can do. She can research, and dig, and information-gather, and just generally be the stereotypical Hermione he remembers Sirius finding fondly amusing, and _she_ can find the way to keep herself from coming back.

Because she needs to not come back. This is his hell. He won't have her lost in it.

"Sirius, I don't know!" she cries as he storms towards her again, the same endless questions, asked for the umpteenth time, on the tip of his tongue. Her frustration is tinged with an exhaustion that haunts the lines around her eyes, and Sirius stops, head cocking, his mind suddenly jumping tracks.

Her chin lifts easily under the nudge of his knuckle.

"There's something wrong with you," he says slowly, his eyes roaming her face; a statement rather than a question. Hermione swallows and her gaze falls, and he notices for the first time how folded in she looks. Her shoulders are hunched, skin pale. Her hair is hanging, dull and listless.

Sirius's gut knots up.

How long has this been going on?

"Hermione."

"It's nothing, really," she says, pulling away from him with a sniff, her hand swiping across her top lip before spearing through her hair. Her clothes look to be hanging off her, and Sirius reaches out and takes the hand still at her side, holding it loosely, thumb dancing across visible blue veins and prominent narrow bones. She sighs and Sirius knows that it _isn't_ nothing.

It isn't nothing at all.

"I'm just tired, is all."

"Is coming here doing this to you?" he asks roughly, and he can tell by the way her eyes flicker to him and away again that the answer is yes. She shrugs, looking irritable – no sign of tears in her expressive eyes – and sits down with her legs crossed at the knees, stress and worry a blanket settling over her that she can't hide. Sirius scowls fiercely and carefully lowers himself down next to her, his hands moving, twisting, wringing themselves together without him noticing.

His stomach is a deep, sucking pit of guilt. _He's_ doing this to her.

"I've been pushing you too hard," he mutters, more to himself than her. Still, when Hermione doesn't answer, his jaw tightens. "M'sorry. Tell me what's going on?"

"It isn't your fault, Sirius," she says quietly, the set of her body contradicting her words. Sirius's shoulders hunch and her eyes flick to him. He hears her sigh.

The length of her arm is warm when it presses against his.

"Sorry. I'm sorry. It really isn't your fault. I know that. I just… I'm really, really tired. I'm so tired. It gets worse every time I come here, and you're the only one here. I'm not blaming you, but I can't keep doing this. I need to slow down."

The clenching of his jaw hurts. Why hasn't he _noticed_ this? "Tell me what's going on," he repeats, and when she sighs again and wraps his fingers up in hers, he lifts his head. Hermione's smile is soft and more than a little weary.

"I haven't been able to figure anything more out," she says, squeezing his hand and turning back to watch the horizon. It's as grey and unchanging as ever, and Sirius is far too afraid that this world that isn't hers is sucking her as dry as the unending dust coating their clothes. She shouldn't _be_ here.

This is _his_ hell.

"The Unspeakables won't talk to me, and they certainly won't let me anywhere near the Department of Mysteries. Whatever _this_ is-" she gestures at herself and flicks a glance at him again, "-it's not showing in my body when I wake up. I've never felt so exhausted in my life, and it shows in my body _here,_ but physically I'm normal when I wake. I could hide the mental effects at first, but Harry and Remus are starting to notice."

The implication is obvious. Sirius gapes at her in shock. "You haven't told anyone?!" he demands, sitting up straight and continuing to regard her incredulously, tugging at her hand until she turns towards him. "No one _knows_ you're coming here every time you sleep? Love, why would you keep that to yourself? This isn't normal! The only way we're going to stop you coming back here is if you have people on your end helping as much as they can! Why do you think I've been hounding you so much?!"

Hermione frowns, looking confused. "You... don't want me to keep coming back? Sirius, I don't understand. I've been looking for you, not me. How are we supposed to get you out of here if we ignore one of the most important aspects?"

"I don't care about me!" he barks, shoving himself to his feet and dragging a frustrated hand through his hair. The sharp pain in his scalp when he tugs at the long locks hanging down past his shoulders helps in settling his hitching breath, and Sirius swivels around to glare at the woman who looks like she's wasting away before his eyes. _Why the fuck hasn't he noticed this?!_ What in Merlin's name is _wrong_ with him?! "I'm _dead_ , Hermione! You're the one who's alive! You shouldn't be focusing on me, _especially_ when being here is so obviously taking its toll!"

"I don't think you are."

Her quiet statement cuts through his agitation, slashing it off at the knees, leaving him standing there, looking at her in disbelief. "Excuse me?"

"I don't think you are dead," she says, getting to her feet as well. She shirt flutters, too big, around her midriff. Sirius stuffs his hands in his pockets and sneers at the material before looking back into her face.

"What are you talking about? Of course I'm dead! Look where we are!"

"Yes, exactly, look where we are!" Hermione retorts, swinging her arm around. She sways a little, then steadies herself, waving away his hand as it reaches for her. "You said it, Sirius; I'm alive. I don't know how or why I'm here, but I don't think it'd be possible for me to be here if you were dead. I don't think it'd be possible for _you_ to be here if you were dead."

"I thought you said you couldn't get near the DoM?" he questions, the words bitten off. He's worried and pissed off and _worried_ , and he can't stand still any longer. She's been looking for _him_? That's absurd! He's where he's supposed to be!

He doesn't know how long they've been playing this game, her showing up and then leaving again. He hasn't been counting. Should've he been counting?

His steps slap in the dust, and he jerks himself around again, towards her. She just keeps coming back, far, _far_ , too often.

He should've been counting.

He fucking hates time.

"I can't," Hermione says, watching him. The difference in her appearance that he hasn't noticed – _why hasn't he noticed?!_ – makes her seem like she isn't Hermione Granger anymore. Like she isn't the girl Sirius knew. She isn't, when he thinks about it. Even before the weight lost, the bruising under her eyes, the dulling of her very spirit. This place _is_ sucking her dry.

His heart slams violently in his chest.

"I can't even get to that level," she continues. "But we know what this place is-"

"We _think_ we do."

"No, Sirius, we _know_. We've talked about this, remember? Didn't we agree on this? You fell through the Death Veil. That's the only place this can be."

"Death means death, doesn't it," Sirius mutters, still pacing. He turns his head and bares his teeth, almost grinning at her when she lets out a loud huff of frustration. "It does, pet. How can you argue that I'm not dead if he fell through the _Death Veil_ , hmm?"

"Because you're not a bloody ghost, are you?" she snaps, her fingers abruptly firm around his wrist, swinging him to a stop. He grunts in surprise when the energy of her palm stamping his chest pushes him back a step. "You're corporal, Sirius! My hand doesn't go through you, you clearly don't float, and you definitely aren't see through! Stop making excuses!"

He glowers at her, a surge of irrational anger muddying his mind. "Perhaps I've just chosen to haunt where I died?"

"No, you bloody well did not," Hermione growls, glaring right back at him. "Because _I'm_ here and _I'm_ not dead! This isn't heaven or hell, or anything resembling afterlife at all! Why are you so resistant of that fact?!"

He snarls and deliberately steps back, not wanting to think about the answer to that question. So he doesn't. Instead, he grits his teeth and listens to her regard him, big brown eyes on his back. Ever questioning. She sighs, a mantra on repeat, and there's silence until he can't stand it anymore.

"You have to stop coming here. It is killing you."

Her pause speaks volumes. "I know," she says finally, very softly. Sirius wants to be Padfoot in that moment, to escape the sudden suffocation. To be in a simpler mind.

He hasn't been Padfoot since his existence began.

"What are we going to do?" he whispers, and her slight gasp accompanying the familiar twang of atmosphere is his only answer. When Sirius steels himself to glance back over his shoulder, he sees empty air.

For the first time since she arrived, he prays that he stays alone.


	5. Chapter 5

**I'm With You**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't don't think I don't own, I know I don't own.

 **Mega alpha love and appreciation:** Siriusly Orion Wicked

 **A/N –** Hello! Update! :D Enjoy, my gorgeous readers, and do blather at me at the end, yes? I love the blather. ;)

For Worthfull, because she deserves all the happiness. Happy early birthday, my darling.

 _For the first time since she arrived, he prays that he stays alone._

* * *

 **Chapter Five**

* * *

"Fuck's sake, woman."

"Don't you 'woman' me," Hermione says, voice achingly exhausted. She blinks, the movement of her eyelid slow and almost jerky, and Sirius takes her by the arm and leads her over to a rock-face that hadn't been there the last time she was. With that single-minded focus in high gear and on her now, it's taken him far too long to notice that his world _is_ actually changing.

It's growing, gradually and in miniscule amounts. Evolving.

Living.

Whilst Hermione's dying.

It's the ninth times she's appeared since he started counting. He lowers her to the ground in the shade of the rock, eyeing the way her legs draw up and her head falls to bury her face in her arms surrounding her knees. A long, weary sigh escapes her and Sirius wants to ruin something at the sound. He wants to pull it apart with his bare hands, to have the stone she's propped again crumble to ashes in his wrinkle-dusted palms. He wants the satisfaction of being able to _do_ something. _Anything._

There's nothing he can do to stop this. He's as useless as his old man always told him he was, and Sirius fucking _hates_ it.

The apology is rolling along his tongue again, pushing at his teeth to get out and into air. Sirius grits said teeth and swallows it back. Past experience has taught him that Hermione won't appreciate repeated apologies, and she hasn't the energy for annoyance.

She hasn't the energy for anything.

He's terribly afraid that one day soon she _will_ stop coming back and what that might mean for her in the real world.

"Is Harry still on your back?" he asks, lowering himself down next to her, his boots dusty, old and just beginning to crack, next to her trainers. She comes here when she sleeps but she doesn't arrive wearing night clothes. It's a tiny, insignificant fact that seems bigger in his mind.

"Constantly," she sighs, not lifting her head. "It isn't helping."

Sirius frowns at her in annoyance, picks up a stick and drags it through the dust. "I wish you would tell them what's going on, Hermione."

"Not until I figure out how to get you out of here," she says, and Sirius's lips thin, the stick's digging turning savage. The lass is fucking stubborn and it irritates the shit out of him.

"You need to bloody well stop sleeping," he mutters. Hermione sighs again, the exhale making her thin frame shake more than breathing ever should, and the stick snaps in Sirius's hand.

Fuck this.

They've tried everything they can think of. From a simple invigoration draught all the way up to a regeneration potion, they've tried to stop Hermione coming to his hell while she sleeps. Nothing's worked, and Hermione's need to stop herself travelling, if that's what you'd call it, has progressively grown as her illness has progressively grown, and Sirius knows she feels guilty for what she sees is making it about her. It's why she still hasn't told anyone in her world.

She doesn't want Harry and Remus to focus on stopping her and effectively forget about him. She doesn't want them to hurt like that.

Hermione Granger is loyal to a fault. Over and over again, Sirius wishes she wasn't.

"If you were a muggle, what do think you'd be doing right now?"

He sees the corner of her mouth twist up into a half-smile, and then her head turns and she's looking at him with an ear pressed into her arms, hair falling into her eyes. It's a distraction technique and they both know it. Arriving drains her and Sirius knows that she'll want to get up and search soon, in the constant hope of finding something out in his odd, lonely, fractured world that'll bring them both home. He can't stop her because she refuses to listen to him – him, who's been there a millennium longer than she has – but he can make her rest. He can make her think. He can get her brain working on something other than this.

So he asks questions; random questions about random things instead of situation-related questions. And she answers them.

"I wanted to go to law school when I was a child," she says quietly. Memories play across her face, soft in nature; warm and relaxing. She smiles. "That, or be an investigative journalist. I had big dreams. Of course, they were nothing compared to finding out I was magical."

"So you'd be in school? Trust you, pet."

"Oh, I wouldn't be in school now, Sirius," she says. Her smirk is pointed and somewhat amused as she shakes her hair out of her eyes, and Sirius finds himself grinning at her, amused right back. She's a woman with confidence, isn't she? "I'd graduate early and top of my class, and I'd be fast on my way to excelling at whatever profession I chose. I'd make my parents proud."

The confidence falters and Sirius curses under his breath. She's told him what she'd done to her muggle parents towards the end of the war to keep them safe. He'd been shocked, skin-chillingly, when he'd heard.

He still is.

"They'd be proud of anything you did," he says, and Hermione scowls, shakes her head, and before he realises she's going to, gets to her feet. He rises instantly and steadies her when sways.

Her smile is grateful but brief.

"Enough resting. We should look."

"There's nothing to find," Sirius points out, quiet voice saying what she already knows. Hermione glares at him and strides forward as much as it's possible for her to stride, pausing only to straighten herself on wobbly legs. Sirius sighs and follows, quickly catching up.

He needs to be there if she falls.

It's become habit to count the steps now. Hermione's convinced that, despite there fruitless searching and her previous negativity, " _there has to be something here, Sirius! There has to be!"_ He's humouring her because he has nothing else to do, or nothing better to do, and the more she walks, the weaker she gets. Following her is how he noticed those tiny changes that have gotten big over time. Changes he's not sure she's noticed herself.

The implications scare him more than he wants to think about.

He's counted to 289 when she pauses to take a breather, a fine tremble running through her body. She turns her head, her mouth opening to say something.

The quake happens out of nowhere.

The ground rolls and bucks and splits, a wide open maw that separates them in a sudden rush, catching both by surprise. Sirius cries out as he's thrown to the ground, hitting hard, the side of his head smacking the dirt with a solid _crack_ , a web of pain and dizzy sickness spiralling from the point of contact. A bell clangs through his temple, and after a moment, he groans and balks and slowly pushes himself up by his elbows, shaking his head to try to clear the spots dancing in his vision.

The earth is still tantruming wildly. Sirius swallows hard and does his best to ride it out, swearing loudly and jerking back in a hurry when rocks fall right where he's lying. A roar cracks the air and he shouts with fear, her name ripping from his throat when he senses _something_ under the roar and crash of a world rocking to pieces. Something familiar.

Something he's only just now recognising he's sensed since he started counting.

 _He should've been counting from the beginning._

The earth throws him again when he gets to his feet, but he pushes back; pushes forward. His head continues ringing and vomit rises, but again he pushes back. Pushes through. He trembles and steps are hard to make, but the split in the earth is at the edge of his toes and he thinks he can see her. She lying on the ground, not willingly moving.

Sirius takes five large steps back. Ignoring his pounding head and the blood he can feel running down his face, he runs.

And jumps.

The something is reverberating through his chest when he lands, swaying on the edge of a long drop into nothingness. It's getting stronger and the ground snatches as his boots as he winds his way towards her as quickly as he can, tripping and kicking out and roaring back at the sky until he's falling to the dirt at her side, his gut ejecting itself as his head screams. The dots turn to solid masses in the corners of his eyes and Sirius blinks hard, wipes his mouth roughly, and reaches out to shake her shoulder.

"Hermione!" he gasps, and then he's gasping a second time because the earth unseats him and his falling forward over her, his hand pressing into her neck; skin on skin. The something _buzzes_ , practically audible, then suddenly it's twanging.

 _It's twanging._

His eyes go wide and she's gone.

So is he.


	6. Chapter 6

**I'm With You**

 **Disclaimer:** Standard disclaimer about me not owning Harry Potter applies!

 **Mega alpha love and appreciation:** Siriusly Orion Wicked (who is an amazing person and whom I love very much!)

 **A/N -** for Worthfull, who is worth every step, every drop, every syllable in the world. Always.

 _His eyes go wide and she's gone. So is he._

* * *

 **Chapter Six**

* * *

"LET ME OUT OF HERE, YOU FUCKERS! I DEMAND TO SEE HERMIONE GRANGER!"

His shout echoes off the four empty walls of the room he's being kept in, and Sirius glares at the closed and locked door viciously, his body moving with an energy he can't control. Pacing, from one end of the room to the other, like he's been doing since they'd thrown him in there. Shouting until his throat is raw, tugging at his hair until his scalp aches, clenching and unclenching his fists over and over.

He can't stop moving. He wants out of here. He wants _out._

Is she all right? Is she _alive_? _Where the fucking hell is he?!_ His mind jumps from thought to thought, never stopping, outrageous scenarios making him all the more agitated, and Sirius growls under his breath as fear and panic push him into turning to the table and chairs in the middle of the room and lashing out. The chair clangs loudly as it hits the ground, metal on concrete. Sirius stares at it, breathing heavily.

His toes hurt.

Sirius sits where he is, anger draining abruptly, eyes falling to the end of his boot, where his toes are pressing right against the edge. He's tired; bodily tired. His mind won't stop spinning. He reaches out and rubs at the aching spot at the toe of his boots, knees pulled up to his chest. Cradled there.

He's cold and he's tired and he doesn't understand what the hell is going on.

Where is he?

He feels… here. Right here. Sirius is him and he is Sirius. It's disconcerting because there is no separation – no memory of a Sirius that doesn't feel like him. The memories are his because he _is_ Sirius, and they frighten him because they're _real._

He's real.

He's… not dead?

 _How is that possible?!_

He presses the heels of this hands into the sides of his head and begins to rock gently as he tries, for the umpteenth time, to make sense of it all. Of everything. The everything that feels _far_ too real. His thoughts and emotions are confusing, and his body feels heavy, and sweet Merlin above, he just wants to sleep. But he can't do that because that's all he's been doing, and the very fact that he can close his eyes and shut his body down freaks him the fuck out. The rocking intensifies.

 _Is he alive?_

 _Is this world real?_

 _Is this the real world?_

A week. A week he's been here, in this room, and the ability to recognise time again unnerves and disturbs him, only adding to the bewilderment. He'd woken up – _he'd woken up!_ – in front of the dias from his nightmares, tossed on the floor, bruised and sick and confused, surrounded by people in heavy velvet robes. He hadn't see their faces, but he had seen the emblem on their robes before he'd been hit with a stunning spell and consciousness had fled once more. They'd been Unspeakables and they'd been shocked.

And horrified.

He still remembered how to read body language, a habit he'd picked up out of necessity as a child. He'd caught that much before passing out.

When he'd woken again, he'd been here, in this room with its dull, colourless walls and table and two chairs. He hadn't seen a single soul since. No one had come to talk to him, to _question_ him, and the food that he inhales like a man starved when it arrives, appears out of thin air three times a day, on the equally as dull and colourless table.

He wants colour. He needs colour.

Where the _fuck_ is Hermione?!

He sleeps tucked in a corner with his back against the wall, and uses the lavatory when a mysterious door is suddenly and disturbingly _there_ in the wall that allows him to, and he worries. He always worries. He can't take much more because he needs to know if she's safe. He needs to know she's okay.

She hadn't been okay back… back.

Where?

 _Where is he?!_

Snapping to a stop, he's on his feet, pacing and glaring violently at the door again.

"COME FUCKING TALK TO ME, YOU COWARDS! LET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE OR I'LL DESTROY YOU ALL! GET ME HERMIONE GRANGER OR I SWEAR TO MERLIN, I'LL MAKE YOU DISGUSTING, YELLOW-BELLIED SNAKES WISH YOU'D NEVER BEEN BORN!'

"That might be a bit difficult to do singlehandedly, Mr Black, considering far too many of us were Slytherins."

The unexpected voice has him swinging towards the door in a movement so quick, he has to take a step back to stop himself toppling forward. There's a man standing in the open doorway, looking at him with a still face – too still, eyes a watery blue that remind Sirius of past friendships he'd rather not think about. Those eyes watch him steadily, lips set in a line just so, nose and forehead symmetrical, a tiny mole at the corner of his right eyebrow the only thing throwing off the perfect alignment of the man's features. Sirius's own eyes narrow.

He knows him.

"Croacker," he says flatly, recognition sending a tremble down his spine as the Sirius-that's-him's memories of the man play through his mind's eye. Saul Croaker – an Unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries and a man who'd been two years ahead of the Marauders in school – inclines his head, still with his eyes on Sirius. His robes hide his entire body, including his hands, and Sirius watches him like a convict considering his options, settling his weight more evenly and wishing he had his wand.

He's getting out of this fucking room if it's the last thing he bloody well does.

"Yes, but not you. You were a Ravenclaw," he murmurs, legs spread, head tilted. Tension thrumming merrily through his gut. "Sometimes the hat gets in wrong, eh?"

Croaker's lips twitch. The movement's so miniscule, Sirius thinks he imagined it. "I'm not your enemy, Black," he says, voice mirroring the stillness in the lines of his face. Sirius bares his teeth in something resembling a smile, the same determination he'd felt in school – to break that Merlin-damned stillness that never seemed to fade – filling his head all of a sudden. Croaker had always been good at hiding what he was thinking, and it'd used to piss Sirius off something awful that he couldn't get even the tiniest reaction out of him.

The memories shake their way through him, bringing with them a combination of happiness and discombobulation that distresses him. Sirius tries his best to hide the way he has to drag in a bracing breath at the feeling.

His memories.

 _His_ memories.

He feels like he's a puzzle piece that's been forced into a place it doesn't quite fit.

"But of course my enemy wouldn't keep me in a single room against my will for a solid week."

Croaker's lips do the twitching thing again, but before Sirius can figure out whether his mind is still playing tricks on him, or if the very picture of stoic has actually loosened up a little over the years, the Unspeakable's stepping further into the room and speaking again. "I've had some rather interesting conversations with Harry Potter this past week," he says in that fucking conversational tone of voice. Sirius's heart jolts and those watery blue eyes sharpen. "Ah, yes, I see that got your attention. Care to sit, Mr Black?"

"No," Sirius answers through numb lips, his mind whirling with distress and confusion. Harry? He's been talking to Harry?

Why has he been talking to Harry?

"No, me neither," Croaker says, inclining his head once more. His hands are buried within his sleeves in front of his midriff, his posture bringing forth more shaky memories of a muggle movie he and James had been obsessed with in their late teens. What'd been the bad guy's name in that? Sith? He couldn't quite remember. "I find standing gives you a lot more range of movement, don't you agree? Anyway, Potter. His girlfriend has been rather sick over the last few days, I'm afraid to say."

There's ice in his veins. Sirius swallows heavily and tries with all his willpower not to show the fear that's sliding across his skin in a frigid rush. "Hermione? She's not his girlfriend, mate. Get your facts straight."

The corner of Croaker's mouth flitters a third time. Sirius hates the smug prick. "Miss Granger isn't, no, but I do find it interesting how your mind automatically jumps to her rather than Miss Weasley, Mr Black."

 _Weasley? Ginny Weasley?_

"And you know what I find even more interesting? Miss Granger fails to wake up one morning, falling effortlessly into a coma the very instant you pop like a cork out of a bottle from the Death Veil – the very same Death Veil you fell through to your _death_ eight years ago. Makes you wonder, doesn't it? Especially considering Miss Granger is the person you've been yelling for continuously ever since."

His heart is going to escape from his chest, it's slamming so hard. _She's in a coma?!_

"I need to see her," he says, and even as he says it he knows he's giving away far too much. He's on the way to giving Croaker exactly what he's after, revealing information he should wisely be keeping to himself. But he can't seem to help it. There's a knot in his chest that's iron in the snow; hard and cold and unmovable.

Has he killed her?

 _Has him coming back here killed her?_

"I need to see her," he repeats, taking a step forward. There's that twitch of Croaker's mouth and then he's moving, stepping back to the open door. The air shimmers and Sirius's gaze snaps over to the second person now standing in the previously unoccupied doorway.

Bright green eyes under a somewhat faded lightning bolt-shaped scar stare back at him.

"S-Sirius?"

Sirius's mind empties with a whoosh.

"Harry."

Harry Potter takes one step, then two. Then he's running, and Sirius's arms open wide and wrap tightly around the boy – _the man_ – he last saw watching with horror as his godfather fell backwards through an archway and died, directly in front of him.


	7. Chapter 7

**I'm With You**

 **Disclaimer:** Don't be ridiculous.

 **Mega alpha love and appreciation:** Siriusly Orion Wicked

 **A/N –** The love and support for this story truly astounds me. Thank you, my wonderful readers. You are greatly appreciated and I love you all!

For Worth, who is the peas to my carrots, the ice cream to my chocolate sauce, the soul to my mate.

 _Harry Potter takes one step, then two. Then he's running, and Sirius's arms open wide and wrap tightly around the boy – the man – he last saw watching with horror as his godfather fell backwards through an archway and died, directly in front of him._

* * *

 **Chapter Seven**

* * *

He smells the same.

It's a ridiculous thought. Sirius knows it is. But as he hugs his grownup godson for the first time in apparently _eight years_ – his mind immediately shies away from that thought the instant it slivers into his brain – he marvels at how little has changed.

Harry's no taller than he was the last time Sirius saw him. His shoes are still old and worn, scuffed up and marked at the top where they should've been white. The sleeves of his jacket still fall down over the palms of his hands, and he still uses the same shampoo, something with a hint of eucalyptus that makes his hair smell fresh and clean and doesn't do a damn thing to tame the unruliness. His glasses still slip down his nose, the lenses just as dirty and smudged as they had been when he was fifteen.

It still hurts Sirius when the kids cries as well, it seems.

"Hey now, enough of that," Sirius murmurs, his own eyes prickling as he gently urges Harry back and lifts up his smudged glasses to wipe his wet cheeks. He grins a little at the way Harry sniffs loudly and removes his glasses altogether to knuckle his eyes as if he were still a chubby-faced, laughing toddler rather than a 23-year-old man. "Save your tears for sadness, lad. This is a happy event, yeah?"

"Yeah," Harry sighs, rubbing his eyes a final time and then smiling at Sirius with an expression so bright, it makes Sirius ache just to look at him. "I can't believe it's you. You… it just doesn't make sense. You d-died, Sirius. H-how are you here?"

"Beats the hell out of me." Sirius shrugs, takes Harry's glasses and pops them back on his face himself, reaching over with another grin to ruffle the boy's hair. He chuckles when Harry ducks out of the way, his laughter watery but still very much audible. "I don't even know where 'here' is."

Maybe he says it a little too truthfully. Harry's eyes widen for a moment, and then his face transforms, going blank and somehow hard, his spine straightening and his legs falling into a casual stance that screams anything _but_ casual. His hands make home behind his back as he turns to look away from his godfather, and Sirius watches with amazement as the kid he'd been in his head just a moment before, vanishes in the face of a man who'd gone through a war against his will and come out the other side not quite so unscathed.

Harry isn't a child. Not any longer.

Some things _have_ changed.

Sirius wants that child back urgently. That eye-knuckling innocence.

How much has he missed?

"You said he could leave once I'd confirmed his identity," Harry says, and Sirius suddenly remembers that they're not the only ones in the room. His step closer to his godson is automatic and not something he can prevent, his need to protect, to defend if he has to, shadowing the shadow he becomes behind Harry. His wish for his wand is practically physical.

Croaker's mouth does that annoying twitching thing. Sirius bares his teeth.

"I think there might be a couple more questions that need to be answered first," the Unspeakable replies. Harry's jaw tightens, the shift in his posture miniscule, and the only way Sirius is able to see his wand appearing in his hand is because he's standing behind him.

His heart twinges, twisting in his chest.

Definitely not a child anymore.

"I told you I wasn't going to cooperate until everyone is whole and healthy again," Harry says calmly, meeting Croaker's gaze as if Croaker isn't many years older than him, and a ministry official to boot. "Hermione needs to see him, and Hermione's needs are a lot more important than yours at the moment. You'll have everyone's full cooperation once I'm satisfied she's no longer in any pain."

 _Pain?_

"I thought she was in a coma!" Sirius blurts, that funny little sprig of desperation rearing its head again at the mention of her name. He takes a step forward, then another, and would've taken a third if Harry hadn't reached out and rested a hand on his arm.

Flushing, he stops, his hands balling at his sides.

"She was, up until yesterday," Harry says, glancing at Sirius out the corner of his eye. "Did he not tell you that?"

"No," Sirius answers through grinding teeth. His nails press solidly into his palms. "No, he didn't." He turns to Harry and swallows heavily, his heart slamming much too hard. Fuck's sake. "Why is she in pain?"

Harry sighs and squeezes Sirius's arm in reassurance before shaking his head. "She's not. Not really. Look, it's difficult to explain. You'll understand better when you see her. Which is what we need to be doing right now."

It's pointed and clearly spoken to Croaker. Sirius doesn't know when or how Harry developed the ability to stare someone down the way he was doing at the moment, his expression wooden and completely unforgiving. There are a lot of things he doesn't know, and that one fact only adds to the need to make the things he _does_ know outweigh the things he doesn't.

When did his Prongslet become the Chosen One?

Sirius sighs as the question runs through his mind. He's been in the dark in the past, hasn't he?

He doesn't like the dark. He doesn't want to stay there if he can help it.

"Don't make me pull rank on you, Saul."

The Unspeakable's face doesn't change one iota in expression.

"What makes you think you have any rank to pull, Harry?" he answers quietly, steel underlying his almost lazy tone. When Harry's brows slowly rise, a smirk twisting, lightning quick, across his features – and _fuck_ if he doesn't look exactly like James at that moment – Croaker's lips purse in consideration. Finally, his shoulders loosen.

"As you wish," he concedes with a sigh that's much more exaggerated than it is genuine. Sirius wonders if Harry's picked up on that. "I shall accompany you, however. For protection."

Harry's eyes flash with laughter, twinkling in much the same way old Dumbles used to do. He _has_ picked up on it.

Sirius is fucking _proud._

"For protection, of course," he says, dipping his head and hiding his amusement. "We'll apparate. There's anti-apparition wards in here, I take it?"

Croaker nods and then waves his arm towards the doorway, as if he's doing them a favour and personally breaking them out himself. Harry's lips twitch and he turns to Sirius with an eager grin.

"Ready to get the hell out of here?"

Sirius's answering nod is so rapid, it nearly sends a crink through his neck. "Prongslet, you have no fucking idea."

~0~

St Mungo's has changed. They arrive in a tiny room filled with cleaning supplies, but Sirius doesn't think to question why he's suddenly standing in a bucket half-full of dirty, sodden rags, as he's trying to stop himself from throwing up on the shiny, polished floor. If he needs any proof that he hasn't been in this world, whatever world it is, for a lengthy amount of time, the fact that he's no longer used to the squeezing, sucking feeling of apparition would be the perfect example. He drags in a few deep breaths and quietly steadies himself, removing his now grungy boot from the bucket and focusing on the sprig of desperation sitting in his chest. He frowns.

It's not a sprig now.

It's growing.

It's baffling.

"Sirius?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he croaks, rubbing his hand over his mouth and ignoring the slowly fading nausea. He'd get used to it again. He'd always preferred being in control to side-along, anyway. "Hermione?"

"This way," Harry says. He leads Sirius and Croaker out of the supply room and into a long hallway that looks old and misused and _damaged._ Sirius's brows arch high as he takes in the missing chunks of building, the holes in the walls, and the cracks in the floor that remind him of earthquakes and the earth splitting apart, and Hermione hurt, lost to him on the other side. The desperation sprouts further and his footsteps pick up speed, even as he throws Harry a questioning look.

Harry's mouth thins. "The hospital was a big target during the final year," he says, walking faster to keep up with Sirius. Croaker walks at their heels as if he's strolling along without a care in the world; a contradiction that should've, and at any other time would've, irritated the shit out of Sirius.

The desperation's more important.

"They repaired a lot of the main areas, but there's still a lot to go. No manpower and rapidly dwindling coffers means things get forgotten. But at least it also means privacy when we need it."

"This isn't part of the main hospital?" Sirius asks. Harry shakes his head and then he stops. They're standing in front of a battered-looking door, the red paint flaking and peeling off in large strips down the middle.

He taps the peeling door with his wand. The lock clicks.

"No. She's in here," he says, but Sirius already knows that. It's like he's looking at himself pushing the door open, a strange separation that affects time, too – has it slowed? Another place, another world, runs through his head. His lungs stop working.

He can't breathe.

"Sirius?"

She whispers it as she sits up in the bed, deeply shadowed eyes locked on him, skin so pale it looks translucent.

"Sirius."

She sighs it, and his legs are moving.

He's cupping her jaw.

Skin on skin.

 _Oh._

It clicks. Like the lock. He can breathe again because it's opening inside him and sliding into place, where the desperation used to be.

Where it no longer is.

Where's there's now something new. Something solid and bright. Something soothing and gentle.

Something intertwined, reinforced; a balancing out.

A touch, an offer, a _promise_.

Painful.

 _Right._

Why does he feel so terrifyingly _tied_ all of a sudden?

 _What the fuck is this?_

"Okay," Hermione whispers, staring up at him in shock with her hand cradling his, licking her lips nervously while panic rages on an endless loop through Sirius's head. "Um. Okay. I d-don't… w-what just h-happened?"


	8. Chapter 8

**I'm With You**

 **Disclaimer:** nope, nope, I do not own.

 **Mega alpha love and appreciation:** Siriusly Orion Wicked

 **A/N –** Hello, my good people! Long time no see! Sorry about that. I hope you enjoy this relatively short chapter, and do leave me some thoughts at the end, yes? Mwah!

For Worthfull1, whom I love very, very much.

 _"Okay," Hermione whispers, staring up at him in shock with her hand cradling his, licking her lips nervously while panic rages on an endless loop through Sirius's head. "Um. Okay. I d-don't… w-what just h-happened?"_

* * *

 **Chapter Eight**

* * *

"You are going to want to step back from her, cousin."

The words are spoken softly, in a voice no louder than a murmur with iron entwined. Sirius swallows, the roaring in his head giving the sentence a distant quality, as if spoken in another room; through the wall, muffled but somehow still perfectly understandable. He stares down into her eyes and presses his teeth together, in a physical effort to stop the roaring from escaping through his lips.

He knows what this is.

 _No._

 _No._

 _Oh,_ hell _no._

"Sirius? Are you all right?"

"No," he mutters, not sure if he's answering a hovering and concerned Harry, or if the screaming has finally managed to claw his jaw open and pour out. The skin under _her_ jaw is soft, a visible shiver he feels like his own trembling through her at the movement of his thumb. Her throat moves with her nervousness, her eyes saucer-like.

She hasn't looked away.

He needs her to look away.

His lips press into a frustrated, terrified line.

 _Fuck this._

Why won't she look away?

"Sirius, p-please," she whispers, the distress and confusion in her expression making her look like anything _but_ the Hermione he knows. He knows her. He _knows_ her. But he doesn't know this one, and that one thought manages to hike the panic higher, making his heart slam and cranking his teeth wide, a growl rolling through the room. Hermione's eyes grow further at the sound, if that's even possible, and then suddenly he's no longer touching her.

A hand is touching him, however.

"I do not appreciate being ignored," the voice that spoke first drawls, just as quiet as before. Sirius's head whips around and he finds himself looking into the face of a person much too young to be the person he thinks he is. Confusion has him frowning, and it isn't until Harry steps up to the boy's side that it clicks.

 _The same age._

"Draco," he says slowly, eyeing the kid. Not Lucius. He drops his gaze to the hand that's wrapped around his forearm, flexing under the palm, then flicks it back up to the newest generation of pointy-faced Malfoys. " _You're_ gonna wanna let go, lad, if you know what's good for you."

"Only if you stand back over by the wall, Mr Black," young Malfoy says in a tone that to anyone else might have come across as polite, almost conversational.

But, as Malfoy had so graciously mentioned, Sirius is a Black. His eyebrows careen.

"Draco," another voice says softly, admonishingly, and Sirius's eyes dart to the girl with the long ginger hair sitting in a chair in the corner. He blinks.

She's grown up just as much as the others have, but there won't ever be a time when he won't recognise a Weasley when he sees one.

They aren't a common breed.

"Shortstuff," he says, smiling a little for the first time since he walked into the room and his world turned, rather unpleasantly, on its head. "Look at you."

"Hello, Sirius," Ginny says, grinning back at him and getting to her feet. Her hair swings around her elbows as she approaches him and the Malfoy, her knee poking out of the astonishingly large holes in her baggy muggle jeans with every step. "Draco's going to let you go now. Aren't you, Draco?"

"No," Draco says baldy, jaw suddenly set in a mulish fashion. Ginny crosses her arms and gives him a sharply pointed look, her mother in her gaze so solidly that at any other time, Sirius would've laughed. Draco's jaw hardens further, his eyes flashing with something Sirius can't read, but it isn't until Harry presses his hand into Draco's side – surprise has Sirius's brows winging again – that he sighs huffily and finally steps back.

"He knows what this is and he doesn't want it," the Malfoy heir says, voice crisp and clear, arms folded in a mirror of the girl standing much too close next to him. Why is she so close? She looks like… is she touching his back? Sirius frowns. "He shouldn't be anywhere near her."

 _Look who's talking, mate._

"For the love of God, would someone please at least have the decency to fill the _other_ party in on what this is?!"

He hasn't forgotten she's there. It would be impossible to, and that thought has the muscles in his back clenching painfully tight. Sirius closes his eyes, that little extra something in the back of his mind, an awareness that copied in his chest to a degree that makes him want to run as far and as fast as his legs can carry him, humming merrily. Feeling like throwing up, he takes a large step back from the bed, and then another, ending up right where Malfoy wanted him in the first place. With his back against the far wall.

He can't leave the room.

He can but he can't.

Fuck's sake.

He stares at the floor and doesn't look up.

"Ever heard of the Eliza Connection, Granger?"

The tiny sound of exasperation from Hermione tickles its way along Sirius's shoulders, almost making his lips twitch. He presses them firmly together.

 _You're a dumb fuck, Malfoy._

"Of course I have," Hermione says, a quick look showing her glaring as if insulted he'd even asked that question. Sirius quickly looks down again. "It's when two people are connected from birth, meant for each other in any way possible, in whatever capacity the couple and connection requires. Alastor Drywer discovered it in 1927, when it became painful, both emotionally and physically, for his daughter, Eliza, to leave her best friend's side. The two women became lovers and married eventually, and Drywer became famous, naming the connection after his daughter and writing multiple books on the subject. What does that have to do with me?"

The silence in the room after her question is as painful as the connection she'd just described. Another growl rumbles through Sirius's chest, his spine curving, as if to contain it. He can feel her eyes on him, probing.

Considering.

 _Seeing._

Realising.

It took longer than he thought it would.

"Oh," she whispers, so very softly, and a bomb goes off in Sirius's head. The oxygen in the room feels heavy; too heavy to breath in. His lungs have collapsed in on themselves. His head spins, and his teeth chatter, and fuck it, fuck it, _fuck_ it, _he can't breathe!_

His hand's on the door handle before he realises he's moved, and all he hears as he throws himself from the room, the door slamming behind him, is her. Speaking over everyone else, she's calling his name, sounding panicked, and worried, and loudly, shrilly, out of control. It's all he is too, and he knows that somewhere in his fragmented head. They're in this together.

But he can't stop himself from leaving.

He can't go too far.

It won't _let_ him go too far.

 _They're in this together._

Sirius's legs give out just outside the door, her voice still echoing in his ears, now blunted by the wall he's put between them. He presses the heel of his hand to his chest, the desire for someone who isn't real coming on so strong, it startles him. It really shouldn't have.

Where is the lost girl he knows so well, calmly counting him down when he needs her?

Where's Hermione?

She's nowhere, is she?

His head falls into his hands, and he sits there, trying his best to breathe through the panic and the extra part of him that wasn't there ten minutes ago, even as the space next to him fills with no longer gangly limbs of his silently sympathetic godson.


End file.
